Finite
by Finferwen
Summary: ...I suppose that if I had higher self-esteem, I'd find a better way to judge my own worthlessness than by the type of people trying to get into my pants." Hisoka, Tsubaki & Tsuzuki visit Muraki's deathbed. Ensue angst. COMPLETE
1. Hisoka

**Finite**

Genre: General

Rating: PG

A.N: Time to pull another one of those fantastic "I've never written in this genre, please don't pick on me!" routines. I genuinely haven't though, so if you can see something that needs fixing or is just wildly inaccurate please tell me.

Mmm, introspective. This takes place during the King of Swords Arc, after Muraki has been killed (duh, I doubt Hisoka would be sitting on the edge of his bed if there was a chance he was alive). I'm considering making it into a little trilogy with Tsubaki and Tsuzuki doing the same thing, so if you think it's worth continuing, likewise feel free to say so.

* * *

You're not perfect. 

It's the first conclusion I make as I stare at you, lying paler than pale upon your bed, still smelling faintly of the roses your dead fingers clasped to your chest before your assistant took them away and wiped the coppery trickle of blood from the corner of your mouth.

Death reveals you for what you are - just a man. A sadistic, bitter and cruel man in life, but human nonetheless. When I lean in closer to you I can see the faint traces of lines on your face; tiny imperfections that tell me from the way your skin is creased at the edges of your eyes and lips that you do know the difference between a smile and a smirk and are capable of both, even if I've never seen them. There are horizontal marks across your forehead, too. What the hell would someone like _you_ have to worry about?! In that moment I want to choke you, make you beg the way you made me beg and humiliate you and...no. There's no point. No matter how hard I squeeze you won't open your eyes in terror or even mockery. You're already dead. Just lying there taking my scrutiny without complaint; your mortality written on your white face and the beginnings of stubble on your cheeks and chin.

Funny that you cheated Death's guardians over and over again; fought with and antagonised them, refused to die...but you couldn't fight age. You're just human, and I hate you for it. 

You were supposed to be as immortal as me - a demon, an enemy, a corruptor and destroyer frozen in time the same way I am. Someone I could hate wholeheartedly without being questioned. You were perfect and evil and as much as I wished you dead, in a way I never wanted you to die. Not that I want for you to wake up and start whispering to me again, calling me your doll and making me burn...perhaps I just wanted you to sit on your throne of bones and blood like the devil you were...are?...I don't know anymore...I want something, someone, to point at and be able to say, it's all your fault.' Someone to hate other than myself. And you couldn't even do that after what you took from me.

Bastard.

Maybe I should check your pulse - make sure you're actually dead and are going to stay that way. What would happen if I touched you? I don't want to touch you, but I need proof. Need to know that my skin will stop crawling with your touch from now on and that occasionally I might be able to sleep without waking up in a cold sweat.

Your skin is cool. Cool and smooth and utterly without evidence of a heartbeat. And I know you used to have one - not that I'd have put it past you not to - because every time I relive that night you ruined me, I can hear it thumping wildly between my shuddering breath and the thin screams torn from my bleeding throat. Somehow I imagined that touching you would be some sort of filthy, vile experience; like having your fingers break through something rotten. I read in a book somewhere a fictional empath - blind, virtuous and well bred - described the antagonist - a cruel boy with a voice like undiluted honey - as sweet in the same way off things are sweet and that was why he'd never attempt to read him and avoided touching him. But there's nothing remotely sweet about you now, except for the faint hint of roses and the slightest tang of sweat and cologne. Even the decaying smell won't arrive for a few days.

You don't even smell of sakura petals or blood this way. Maybe you never really did, and when I smelled them on you it was just psychosomatic in the way that I sense my own sweat and the feel of earth and mud and bark beneath my back when you walked in the same room. 

The sea air has blown a strand of pale hair across your face. That won't do at all. If it's there I can't be sure that your eyes are really closed and you're really dead and gone. My fingers are shaking as I reach up to move it away - the most natural reaction in the world...until I realise how maternal and intimate the gesture is. I snatch my hand away as if it's burnt and slam the door on my way out, leaving you there to lie quietly; mortal and dead and done.

You're dead, you died as someone's angel...and I don't like it one bit.


	2. Tsubaki

**Finite - Chapter 2(Tsubaki)**

Rating: PG

Genre: Angst

Notes: Well, here's the second chapter. Guess who's putting off doing Tsuzuki in fear of getting him totally wrong in favour of slightly deranged Tsubaki? Yes, she's a silly, oblivious girl, but I can't make myself hate her just because of that. I almost feel sorry for her. I hope she's not too OOC.

Thankyou sooo much for the lovely reviews! *dances around manically* Aah, my sated ego... And now I apparently indirectly own Kaiser-chan via chapter 1, so I'm obligated to explain that yes, the book Hisoka was mentioning is a real one. It's called _Obernewtyn_, by Isobelle Carmody. The character he's referring to is Dameon. And don't worry, Lothlorien, everyone has an eency soft spot for Muraki now and then and he needs devoted fangirls to keep him ...menacing. And it could be worse - it could be Terazuma. *huggles Terazuma plush*

* * *

Sensei...? 

Sensei, why did you leave me?

I guess I shouldn't have been surprised; everyone always leaves me in the end anyway - mother, father, the only friend I ever had... it seems like all the people I ever loved paid for my happiness with their lives. Whether it's some bizarre form of universal balance or just coincidence, I thank all three of them because they gave me you.

My own silvery angel - ethereal and powerful, gentle, courteous and kind to me, the person who ensured I could live at the risk of his own career and reputation. You held my hand when I fretted with pain in the night and listened to me with an open ear. You gave me everything a good doctor should and under you, I began to live. You didn't give me you, though. 

But I loved you anyway.

It's kind of chilly in here, and as my nightgown would likely be insufficient for anything other than tropical weather I begin to shiver lightly as I wrap my arms about my chest, guarding the second-most precious gift you gave me with their feeble warmth. The velvet and cool mahogany of the chair beside your bed don't help matters, and I don't really see the harm of sitting a little closer to you...you're not warm, but I can pretend, can't I?

I reach out to touch your chest, testing for any sign that you're just asleep and will wake up at any moment to chastise me for walking around at night half-dressed. You'll offer me the jacket from your back and I'll huddle into it, breathing in your scent mixed with your cologne as you usher me out the door and back into my own room. You'll straighten the rumpled bedclothes as if it was your duty while I stand and watch the easy, graceful way you move, and when I slip back between the sheets, shivering once again with the loss of that jacket, you'll pull the covers up to my chin and ask what on earth I was doing in your room. I'll stammer out that I'd dreamed you were killed, partner it with what I hope will be a coquettish blush, and you'll stroke my hair as you press your palm to my forehead professionally and tell me you're not going anywhere.

It doesn't hurt so much when I pretend. Sometimes, after I discovered that you'd never love me the way I loved you, I fantasised about being her. Other times I hated her for having you, pictured her as some venomous serpent coiling herself more and more tightly around your neck or as a hideous witch that had ensnared you against your will. I don't even know her name, because I never had the heart to ask.

I lay my head against where your heart should beat and imagine I can hear it beating. You'd have a strong heartbeat, wouldn't you? Strong and solid and powerful, just like you. Did she ever lay with her head on your chest, sensei? Run her fingers over your skin in reverence like I would have? Worship you forever and always and love you more than life like I still do?

Is she crying for you yet, sensei?

If you'd just open your eyes and lie to me, I'd cry until my eyes and throat bled for you.

Your hands are so pale, sensei. And they're cool. Let me warm them up for you. Between my two smaller hands, your fingers aren't so chilled anymore, and it gets easier to pretend again.

But it's still so cold in here...


	3. Tsuzuki

**Finite**

**Chapter 3 - Tsuzuki**

Rating: PG

Genre: Angst/Introspective

Notes: I apologise in advance for the length of this note. Well, I tried. I took a crack at Tsuzuki. And although Yukoma (who says such lovely, lovely things about me *glomps*) says I can't botch any characters up, I'm still cringing at this. The other two were written in one hit (each), but this took a couple of days because I got so tetchy about it.

It might be of use if I try to explain why I've written Tsuzuki the way I have. See, I'm a strange person who gravitates towards things not so much for what they appear to be, but for subtext or side-stories - for instance, my favourite bit of _Othello_ isn't the murdery part or the main plot, but the way Iago interacts with his wife. And although it would have been a piece of cake to write Tsuzuki as indignant at being molested or suicidally angsty, I don't think that's how he would have reacted to Muraki's death. Tsuzuki, as I see him, cares an awful lot about what other people think of him and bases his own opinion of himself on what he feels is reflected off those people. When people tread lightly around him he feels alienated, when he's a pest he gets chastised as a normal person, and when the person he's interacting with is unable to respond to him, he lets his paranoia roam free in little paroxysms of strong feelings. Well, that's my little explanatory rant. Please don't hurt me.

* * *

I never understood you. Maybe that's why I can't figure out if I should be crying for your death and the sadness of the people you've left behind, or dancing around in merriment that he, not to mention my virtue, are both safe. 

Would you expect me to cry? I think he's afraid I'll show sympathy for the devil and do just that. But even Lucifer was an angel once; the brightest star of heaven. Does that make it okay or make the tears all the more shameful? I'll bet the rest of my paycheck that wherever you are, you're probably smirking at me right now.

I hate you. Do you know that?

I hate you because you threw away something I never had, even when I was alive. Especially not when I was alive. I never asked you why humanity was so disgusting to you that you had to rise above it - the opportunity just never cropped up. I envied you, and I think I still do because no matter where you wound up, you're more at peace than I could ever be. 

Some people have all the luck.

I hate you for what you did to him. You ruined his life without the slightest hint of regret, scarred him beyond repair and humiliated him when his only crime was rotten timing. I never asked you why you took such pleasure in being cruel, either. Does it feel that good? So good that you laughed at him while he screamed and bled? Did...did someone ever do that to you? Is that why you wound up the way you were, and why even now your face isn't relaxed in the way a dead man's should be? I've seen enough of death to know that you have to be hiding something, even though it's not really possible. I have so many questions for you, now that you're finally letting me ask. I wish you'd answer me.

I hate you because I can't make myself hate you the way so many people probably think I should. Maybe it's got nothing to do with you at all, and I just hate that others spend so much of their time trying to predict and compensate for how I'll potentially react to something. 

They try to make me feel worthy, but you made me feel I was ...worth something.

Even if it was primarily through a sufficient amount of sexual harassment to get you deregistered. Guess your Hippopotamus Oath wasn't really that important to you, ne?

But then again...you helped her. You made her well when she was sick. Does that make you a good person? In a way it makes a lot of sense. You heal and that makes you good, and I kill people and make them sad, so that makes me bad. But you kill, too, so you're bad as well. Ohhh, I don't understand...

I wonder if he'd call me an idiot for being so confused about you, or whether he'd just clam up again. Maybe both.  


I wish I could have been as graceful in my death as you are in yours. 

Look at you - it's as if you're only asleep. No scarring, no agony...just silence. I feel like I should poke you in the shoulder to remind you that it's time you were up and about wreaking havoc or collecting stamps or whatever it is you do when we're not watching.

Wait. What...? What am I doing?! You're a monster! And I'll bet you're still hurting people and making them cry, even now.

I wonder if anyone would cry for me. I mean, _really_ cry. Sometimes I see them in my dreams - the people that accepted me as I am, even if they didn't know _exactly_ what I am, and they can't see me because I'm really dead. And they're laughing. I know Tatsumi doesn't like me very much, whether because I cry too much or spend too much money or I'm just a rotten partner, but he doesn't have to smile so wide his face looks like it's going to crack. All my old partners are there, too. The ones I was never good enough for. They're consoling Hisoka, but he doesn't look broken up at all...he's smiling, too, as they slap him on the back in congratulations. 

That's the point I usually wake up at, covered in sweat and shaking like a child that's about to be swooped in on by a man in a black coat that reeks of blood. 

If you're a monster, I'm more of one.

...Would you cry for me?

Of course not. You'd just find someone else to molest. I suppose that if I had higher self-esteem I'd find a better way to judge my own worthlessness than by the type of people trying to get into my pants.

I need something to drink.

Ah, moonlight, my constant companion! Streaming through the half-empty wine glass by the armchair near the window like a little beacon of salvation, leaving a false stain of colour on the white of the cloth beneath it not unlike a smear of glowing blood. The chill of the room has preserved it. What's the word they use to describe leaving red wine unopened before you drink it? ...Breathing, I think. Well, this has been left to the air for who knows how long, so at least it'll be good. A toast, sensei, to both of us. May we both find contentment in death someday.

Ack. Guess that if you leave red wine out too long it breathes so much it gets old and dies, because that is the most bitter, horrible thing I've ever put in my mouth. It's like chewing lemon pith! You have strange taste in drinks, Muraki. Oh well, booze is booze. I'll just hold my nose and I won't taste it.

I'm starting to get the impression I shouldn't be here. I'll just stay over here in your armchair and watch for a little while longer, shall I? Just to make sure you're not about to get up and go after my partner again. I told him I'd protect him, especially from you, and if you decide to yawn and stretch and breathe again I'd be lying to him even more than I usually do. For what it's worth, please don't hurt him anymore. Just between us, you know.

The wine's working. I'm starting to slump down in the armchair and it's warm on my aching muscles, holds on to me when I arch my neck away from it only to sink back down again. It's kind of hard to breathe, slouched in this position. Oh well, it's not like it's going to kill me.

I really shouldn't be here, should I? But all the same, please don't send me away. I don't want to go yet.

You still haven't answered my questions.

_End_

* * *

Endnotes: 

Hippopotamus Oath - Yes, I know it's "Hippocratic" as opposed to "Hippopotamus". It just struck me as the type of thing Tsuzuki might mishear or mispronounce, because I do genuinely find him huggable. ^_^

Bitter wine - If you hadn't picked up on it, the reason the wine tasted bad to Tsuzuki is because it was laced with the strychnine Muraki used to floor himself. The odd reaction that Tsuzuki goes on to have to something as simple as a single glass of wine is symptomatic of strychnine poisoning, and he doesn't realise it's poisoned because he doesn't normally drink the stuff.


End file.
